thought was abruptly broken off by a hand closing round hers. Claire’s gaze returned at once to her patient’s face. His eyes were open now and apparently directed at her, though they shone with a strange inner fire.
‘Mr Eden?’
He made no reply save to carry her hand to his lips. Feeling their hot imprint on her skin, she tried to extricate herself from his hold. It tightened instead and pulled her down towards the bed. She fell across him and suddenly his lips were on her neck and cheek, seeking her mouth. Claire turned her head aside, feeling the rasp of stubble and hot breath on her skin.
‘Mr Eden, please!’
The words had no effect. His lips sought her ear instead and found it, his tongue exploring its curves. The touch sent a shiver through her whole body, awakening new and unexpected sensations.
‘Lakshmi,’ he murmured. ‘Lakshmi, my love.’
Claire stiffened and pulled away, heart thumping, but Eden was no longer looking at her, his head tossing on the pillow, the grey eyes feverish and unfocussed. She realised then that he had not seen her at all, in all likelihood had no idea of her presence. In his disordered mind he was with a very different woman.
The knowledge hit her with force. It was a timely reminder of how little she knew of this man or the events that had shaped him. Detaching herself from his slackened hold, she walked a little way from the bed and took several deep breaths to try and recover her composure, her thoughts awhirl with what she had heard. It raised so many questions. Questions she knew she would never dare to ask nor had any right to. Looking at her patient now, she thought he was an enigma in every way. She would swear he was not from the labouring class whatever his dress proclaimed. His speech, his whole manner, precluded it. And yet the men in Gartside obviously knew him and he them. However, he was as unlike them as fine wine was from vinegar. On the other hand many ex-soldiers, even of the educated officer class, were forced to look for alternative employment now that hostilities with France had ceased. No doubt Eden too had had to adapt to the circumstances in which he had found himself. Those circumstances would remove him from her sphere soon enough. It was a disagreeable thought, for she could not forget how his touch had made her feel, if only for a moment. Yet it was no use to dwell on it; another woman had his heart. She could only pray that when he was recovered he would recall nothing of what had just passed.
Marcus had no idea how long he was unconscious, but the next time he came round it was still light and he was lying in a large comfortable bed between clean white sheets. For a moment his mind was blank. Then memory began to return. Turning his head, he saw a familiar figure at the bedside.
‘George?’
‘Welcome back.’
‘How long have I been here?’
‘Almost two weeks.’
‘Two weeks!’ He started up, only to feel a painful twinge in his shoulder.
‘Have a care. It’s mending, thanks to the efforts of my sister and Miss Davenport, but you’re not there yet.’
Marcus lowered himself onto the pillows again. His friend was right; the savage pain was gone to be replaced with a dull ache. Clean bandages covered his injured shoulder and breast.
‘Could you manage a little broth?’ George inquired.
‘Yes, I think I could.’
In fact, with his friend’s help he managed half a bowlful.
‘Excellent. Your appetite is returning. You’ll soon be up and about.’ The doctor replaced the dish on the side table and smiled.
For a moment neither man spoke. Then Marcus met his friend’s eye.
‘Thank you for all you’ve done, George. That’s two I owe you now.’
‘You owe me nothing.’
‘Not so. I only hope I can repay you one day.’
‘My hope is that the men responsible for the outrage are found and brought to justice.’
‘You’re not alone in that.’
‘You were lucky, Marcus. It was a bad business. Seven men dead and six others injured. Those are the ones I know about. The wreckers took their wounded with them.’
‘They had no choice. Arrest would mean a death sentence.’
‘Aye, desperate men will do anything it seems.’
‘Including murder.’ Marcus’s jaw tightened. ‘They knew we were coming, George, and they knew our route. They chose a perfect spot for the ambush.’
‘So it would seem.’ Seeing the other man’s quizzical gaze, Marcus smiled faintly. ‘You want to know how the devil I got mixed up in it, but are too polite to ask.’
His friend laughed. ‘Is it that obvious?’
‘You were never good at hiding your thoughts. But I do owe you an explanation.’
‘I admit to curiosity.’
‘When I returned from India two months ago I was summoned to Whitehall.’
‘Whitehall?’
‘Yes. The government is keen to break the Luddite rebellion. That’s why the rewards for information are so generous. Intelligence gathering is dangerous, though, so they knew whoever they chose would have to be experienced.’ He paused. ‘They sent one of their finest operatives up to Yorkshire, a man born and bred in the county who, suitably disguised, would blend in.’
‘What happened?’
‘He was betrayed and murdered. Shot in the back.’
‘Good Lord!’ George shook his head in disgust. ‘But betrayed by whom?’
‘That’s what I mean to find out. I amhis replacement.’
‘You?’
‘Who better? I’ve done this kind of work before, for the Company in India. It seems word of that got back to London.’
‘But you could have refused.’
‘They knew I wouldn’t, though.’
‘How so?’
‘Because the murdered man was my brother.’
Chapter Three
For a moment George stared at him dumbfounded before the implications of the words struck home.
‘Greville?’
‘Yes.’
‘Dear Lord, Marcus, I’m sorry. I had no idea. I read about his death in The Times, but the piece said he’d had a riding accident.’
‘The matter was hushed up and the story fabricated. The authorities didn’t want
